


Touch me

by LaBoiteDePandore



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Missing Scene, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 00:36:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBoiteDePandore/pseuds/LaBoiteDePandore
Summary: Sometimes Lynn feels like she’s going crazy. She can even say when it began: in the palace garden, when she almost forcibly dragged Muriel there.  When he kneels down, intently and confusedly looking at the flowers. When she looks down from his frowning eyebrows to his hands.





	Touch me

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Я люблю твои руки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20295040) by [LaBoiteDePandore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBoiteDePandore/pseuds/LaBoiteDePandore). 

> A lot of thanks to my beta reader, annamariestark. I hope you liked this writing ;)
> 
> A light nsfw here, guys.

Sometimes Lynn feels like she’s going crazy. She can even say when it began: in the palace garden, when she almost forcibly dragged Muriel there. When he kneels down, intently and confusedly looking at the flowers. When she looks down from his frowning eyebrows to his hands.

Long fingers touch delicate petals carefully, almost weightlessly. Carnation, primrose, lavender - overgrown flowers seem to be drawn to these caring and long, long, so damn long and unexpectedly graceful fingers. Her throat is dry, and Muriel’s hands continue to flutter above the flowers, hovering and barely touching the petals. She shakes her head trying to distract herself, trying not to think what the petals feel; eventually, his hands are the hands of a warrior, not a nobleman, they are rough, and tough, and coarse, and calloused, and they definitely must slightly scratch the delicate skin…

_Oh, for fuck’s sake!_

When Muriel begins to weave a wreath, she herself forgets how to breathe. He has big - no, _huge_ hands, and flowers have such thin and fragile stems, and it seems like a miracle how deft he is at handling them. Long fingers gently smooth the leaves, straighten the petals, and the already woven flower chain lies on his wide palm, huddling trustingly to it with flower heads. Lynn feels stupid, foolish, idiotic envy - she would like to huggle to this palm by herself, to touch it with her lips, to outline its lines with her own tender and soft fingers. When Portia arrives to invite them to hunt, Lynn feels like the world around her is on fire, and that she herself slowly burns in this flame.

...She holds his hand while they return to the palace, and she continues to hold it while they go to the forest in the Nadia’s too small and cramped carriage. Lynn notices that she holds his palm for the first time - just how didn’t she notice before how hot Muriel’s hands were? His palm base is hard, and his thumb base is rough, and there are whole scattering of calluses - above, on the fingers. And the middle of his palm is unexpectedly gentle and soft, with a scar, crossing the hand. Muriel awkwardly pulls his hand away, and she realizes that all this time she has been unknowingly drawing circles - with her thumb over his wide, impossibly hot palm. He blushes fiercely, and she's relatively sure that if needed, his face could have lit even the deadest of nights; Nadia is unsuccessfully trying to hide her smile; Lynn quickly moves away to the opposite wall of the carriage; she curses everything - Muriel, and his hands, and her overactive imagination; and she orders to herself to get the vision of his hand, large and dark against her pale skin, out of her mind.

It seems to help. She doesn’t even shiver when he takes her hand - so, hand in hand they reach his hut. She almost doesn’t think about his fingers when she lightly touches them, passing heavy fur coats to him. And then… she just doesn't have any more time for such thoughts.

At least, until at one of the camps… they’re quite far from Vesuvia already, and he comes up to the tired horses. Sitting by the fire, Lynn absentmindedly glances at his large figure, and then… Of course, there are his damned hands! His wide palm rests gently on the horse’s withers, his fingers smooth down the matted fur.

_Don’t look. Do. Not. Look. Dontlookdontlookdontlook._

The horse snorts, and Lynn unwittingly opens her (don’t look!) tightly closed eyelids. A soft snout pokes into the open palm, and Lynn feels his rough fingers gently slide over her skin, rather than the horse’s. They glide over her temple, along the cheekbone, outline the jaw, descend to the neck. Her throat becomes dry, and she swallows hard, lying on her back, trying to look anywhere - the sky, for example: there are so many stars in the sky. _Just look at the stars._

“Are you okay?” Muriel asks.

_No. No, I’m not. I’m not okay, and all the fault is yours, and your damned voice, and your damned eyes, and your damned scars, and your damned hands._

“Yeah,” she replies frowning at how hoarse her voice sounds.

* * *

Tarske forest greets them with a joyful rustle of leaves, and although Lynn wants Muriel to feel safe here, just like she feels herself, she can’t help but rejoice at the opportunity to take his hands once again. Magic flows through her more freely than ever, and she melts into the sensations: serene forest full of magic, warm sunshine on her cheeks, hot palms. When she opens her eyes, she sees that Muriel looks - not at her or at the forest but at their joined hands, and his cheeks burn with a crimson blush descending to his neck. It seems her fingers live their own life - she draws circles on his palm again, and when she realizes what she is doing, she releases his hands too abruptly, and she asks him, much too cheerfully:

“Are you feeling better?”

Muriel startles a little, and after a moment of confusion, he finally speaks.

“Yes.”

* * *

And then he seems to be teasing her. If she didn’t know him as she already knew, she would have definitely decided that he was teasing her. He begins to carve patterns on the branches. Oh, big deal, she thinks, it’s nothing special, he just picks up branches, he just… He just...

Runs his fingers on smooth bark. Presses on his knife - so that the sinews on the back of his hand become more visible. Carefully and gently leads the blade on the branch, and then brushes off shavings and checks the cut line. His sensitive fingers touch every inch of the branch, and Lynn can swear that she feels these fingers on her own hand.

_He is just resting. He is just carving knotted patterns on the thin branches. Nothing special. Don’t stare. Don’t dream it._

_And don’t clear your throat so loud, you fool, idiot, crazy woman._

Muriel startles and a red streak appears on his finger. He pulls the cut finger into his mouth unconsciously, and she can’t stand it anymore.

“C’mere.”

Her magic heals the cut immediately; the main thing is not to think about licking away the blood drop.

“Thanks,” Muriel murmurs, clearly embarrassed, and she opens her fingers grudgingly, continuing to watch his movements. Up and down, up and down, to brush away the shavings, to stroke the wood, tracing the lines of pattern. Under her gaze, the movements of his hands become more slow, more uncertain; Lynn clenches her lips and fists, persuading herself to turn away - she already made him come South, she already scares him more often than she should, the last thing she needs here…

“Are you alright?”

She shudders and meets his confused but perceptive eye.

“Yeah. I’m just…”

Muriel grunts and returns to his carving, never waiting for an answer.

“You’re weird.”

Morga’s shout makes them jump. Lynn mounts her horse, feels her cheeks flushing.

* * *

He takes her hand by himself - in the dark and cold cave full of hatred and anger. His hand is the only thing that makes her feel alive; he thumbs the outside of her palm quickly and gently, and she feels goosebumps - absolutely inappropriate here and now. She squeezes her fingers tighter, and he responds by grabbing her hand firmly, interlacing his long and rough fingers with hers.

When he (by himself!) leads his thumb across her cheek, wiping dirt away, she feels that she can fight a hundred Vulgoras, if only she knows that he will touch her - just like that, just like now. That he will touch her with such a desire to see her safe, even if he is frowning - that he will touch her with such overwhelming, incredible, endlessly gentle caresses, as if she’s made from the most fragile crystal.

“You got hurt,” he says, running his thumb from her temple to the corner of her mouth, and she makes a huge effort not to turn her head to his finger, not to cover it with her lips, not to bite that sensitive fingertip.

Sadness in his voice and this little, short, but oh-so-caring touching make her lips trembling, and she clenches her teeth, panting.

Morga shouts again.

_Burn in hell, hag!_, Lynn thinks, and Muriel pulls back his hand, blushing as he looks away.

* * *

...He sits on the stump, hiding his face in his hands, and tells her about himself, and the Coliseum, and that his hands are stained with blood, and how he hates himself. He tells her all of this quickly, incoherently, desperately. She kneels down to him and pulls his hand to herself, slowly but persistently - she caresses his rough skin. Then, barely touching, she runs her fingers over the knuckles, covered with a net of scars; squeezes and massages these tense, hard, rough, gentle palms. Muriel seems to relax a little, and then she looks up to him, squeezes just a little tighter, and says:

“Your past doesn’t define you.”

* * *

Morga makes them train all the time, and Lynn kind of likes it. At the end of the day she feels exhausted, and she hasn’t any will - well, _almost_ hasn't any will - to think about something other than sleep. Muriel, who seems younger with his hair pulled back, handles with his quarterstaff in a wonderfully clever sort of way, but Morga is still always unhappy with him. She gives constant criticism; she is rude and harsh and all is Lynn wants to do is grab the stick and smack Morga in the head with it.

First, Muriel squeezes his quarterstaff tentatively, but then he appears more relaxed. His grip becomes more rigid and tight; his knuckles brighten with tension, and his fingers cleverly intercept the shaft. Lynn turns away, lying on her thin fur underlay, and she closes her eyes, trying desperately not to see, not to imagine how these hands squeeze her wrists, wind them behind her head, descend to her waist, grip her thighs tightly.

_Ohholyfuckingshit! Just sleep already!_

...Muriel smiles, just the way only he can do, with the corner of his mouth. He runs one finger over her lips, and Lynn, finally, does the thing she wanted to do all this time - she leads her tongue over his thumb and bites it slightly. Fingers of his free hand stroke her shoulder affectionately, go down below, cup her breast, encircle her nipple. While his fingers draw lines over her abdomen, she reaches for his other palm, pressing a light kiss to it, and then caresses the scar on his palm with her tongue. Her lips finally cover his weathered, dry, unbearably tender lips. It seems to her that his hands are everywhere - in her hair, on her waist, his long fingers tickle inner sides of her thighs, and slowly, impossibly slowly, approaching her pulsating, hot and wet core. Lynn can’t help but moan, and feels a much tougher grip on her shoulder.

“Lynn!”

She shudders and wakes up. She sees Muriel’s worried face blurring in the glow of the fire.

“You moaned. You seem to have a fever.”

_Fever, perhaps, but not **that** kind._

“I’m fine,” she says and her voice breaks. Her heart pounds in her chest as though she’d just finished a long run, and it seems impossible to calm her breathing, and the heat devouring her from the inside is simply unbearable. Muriel scowls, shakes his head, trying to hide behind his bangs (still pulled back), and then returns to his place.

“You need to sleep,” she hears before he lies on his back with a deep sigh.

_I definitely need something more, she thinks and presses her forehead to the cold ground._

* * *

Lynn doesn't know how to fish. She doesn’t like cold water. She feels herself _awkwardly_ rolling up her sleeves to the shoulders. And she abso-fucking-lutely doesn’t care about fish, and water, and cold, because Muriel - again, just like in that cave, runs his thumb across her cheek. She can’t stand it and turns her head just a little, not even an inch. And this is enough for his thumb to slide to the corner of her mouth; for it to slowly, unbearable, unexpectedly sensually touch her lower lip. Her breath catches, and Muriel pulls back his hand, blushing to his shoulders, and he mumbles something about her softness, and about fish, and something else, and then he goes to the water and offers her a hand.

Lynn thanks all the gods she knows for the ice cold water, so she can tell herself that the goosebumps running on her shoulders and arms are because of the water. Not because of Muriel standing behind her, holding her by her shoulders. His grip is tough, firm, but also careful. He helps her to find support beneath her feet, but she doesn’t give a shit about slippery rocks: his weathered fingers descend to her elbows with an elusive movement, touching her skin lightly and weightlessly like a butterfly’s wings; they linger on her elbows, cupping them confidently and reliably; and then they descend lower, to her waist. A shiver runs down her back, and Muriel’s arms tighten around her.

“Are you cold?”

_No, it’s hot, it's too hot, damn you and your hands!_

“A little bit,” her own voice seems to her lifeless, and she hears Muriel snorting behind her, causing the fine hairs on her neck to stand on end.

* * *

His chains, collar and shackles disappear in the thick darkness, where Muriel throws them with determination, bordering on despair. Lynn looks at him - at his defenseless neck which seems so tender, at his unexpectedly thin wrists with rough scars left from the shackles, and she just can't help it. Damn it all, she _already_ kissed him - twice! - and he didn’t push her back, didn’t run away, and that means he won’t push her back now. He won’t, won’t he?

And she takes his palm in her hands, runs her fingers over his wrist, over his scars, and then she presses her lips to his tender, gentle, beloved wrist. His palm tenses when she bites the scar a little, and she is ready to let him go, to step back, to apologize, but… Muriel gasps and touches her face with his free hand. She closes her eyes and raises her head - he leads his fingers over her forehead, outlines her eyebrows, descends down the temple to her cheek and jaw, runs a thumb over her lips, just as she wanted, as she dreamed. Fingers descend to her neck, where her pulse is pounding feverishly, and these hard, weathered, calloused fingers give such gentle and sensual touches that her legs turn into jelly.

“Lynn,” Muriel says, and his voice sounds quiet, low, vibrating and… hoarse?

She opens her eyes and meet his gaze, and oh good heavens, there’s darkness and longing in his eyes. She licks her lips and... he turns away unexpectedly. Only a moment later she realizes that the stream is seething behind them, foam boils on the water, and magic is felt in the air.

“Lynn?”

Now there’s concern in his voice, and she curses everything on this world, and shakes her head trying to drive away the ghostly sensation of his fingers on her neck.

“I’m not doing anything,” she says clearing her throat, and turns to the water, still holding his hand.

She will have time to say something that she didn’t have time to, while dissolving in his gentle touches.

She will have time to say:

I love your hands.


End file.
